Code of Deceit: A Mystery/Detective novel (David Mason series)

by John Foxjohn

  His head fell back and he closed his eyes.

  “Do you want me to send them back?”

  Without opening his eyes or moving his head, he lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. He blew out a cloud of smoke and disgust. “Please do, Peggy. I don’t have anything else to do.” Were these people trying to torture him or something and enlisted Peggy’s help. It had to be a conspiracy to complicate things.

  He sat up straight when they knocked on his door. In their mid to late sixties, they stood looking at him, reminding him of his own parents. “Please have a seat,” he said, indicating the chairs. He’d never seen them in his life. “Okay, what’s this about a missing person?”

  They exchanged a glance, and the woman said, “We came here to speak to Detective Mason. He took a report on our missing son a year ago. He’s been trying to find out what happened to him for us.”

  David’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “Huh? What’d you say?”

  “Officer. Detective Mason is trying to help us find our missing son.”

  David closed one eye and squinted at them with the other. “Detective David Mason is trying to help you find your missing son?”

  “Y—e—s officer. He’s real nice, too,” the man kicked in.

  What the heck are these people talking about? Did they escape from the funny farm? He massaged his temples. They don’t look like total idiots. He placed his elbows on his desk and put his chin on his fingertips. “Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me what this is about?”

  “Okay, if this will help us talk to Detective Mason,” she said.

  He raised an eyebrow. Maybe they are nuttier than a fruitcake. “Ma’am, I can assure you this will help Detective Mason talk to you better.”

  “Okay, officer. A year ago come Monday, the police academy had our son scheduled to start training. On the Saturday before reporting, his friends threw him a party. He left home about seven to go to the party. He never came back. We weren’t worried at first. We thought he might have gone home with—” red crept up her face.

  David nodded. “I understand. He might have found a lady friend.”

  She and her husband nodded, and she let out a breath. “Anyway,” she said. “We didn’t hear from him, but we still weren’t worried. We figured the academy kept him too busy to contact us, and that Friday, Detective Mason came over and told us our son hadn’t shown up. We filled out a missing persons report and Detective Mason has come back about every month to let us know what’s going on with the investigation. He has assured us he will not rest until he finds out what has happened to our son. But we haven’t heard from him in the last month. We called him a few times, but he hasn’t returned our calls.”

  David leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. He’d never seen these people in his life. He’d never investigated a person missing from the police academy, and he’d remember that. Besides, he knew he hadn’t returned their calls.

  “There seems to be a problem here, Officer,” the father said.

  “Ah. We agree on something.” David scratched his head. “You said Detective Mason filled out a missing persons report. Did he give you a copy?”

  ‘Yes. Would you like to see it?”

  “Uh huh.”

  When he reached in his pocket, he brought out a folded paper and handed it to David. He unfolded it. Standard missing persons report. He glanced down at his name on the bottom: Detective David Mason, missing persons division, Houston Police Department.

  “Officer. We’d like to talk to Detective Mason,” the man said after a long pause.

  David stared at him for a long moment, and then rubbed his hand across his mouth. “Sir, that’s the problem. You are talking to Detective Mason.”

  “Huh?”

  “My name is Detective Sergeant David Mason.”

  “No it isn’t,” she said.

  David puckered his lips and rubbed his neck. He took a deep breath. “Ma’am—I think I know who I am. I’m Detective Sergeant David Mason.”

  “Well,” she said, “we want to talk to the other one.”

  He shook his head, bewildered. “Ma’am. I’m the only Detective Mason on the Houston Police Department.”

  “In that case,” the man said, “where is our son?”

  He leaned back with his head falling forward, rubbing his temples. If he shot them right here no jury would ever convict him. There had to be a law against tormenting police officers.

  He asked if he could copy their report. Xeroxing it, he gave them the original, assured them he would look into it, and get back with them.

  He heard the woman say to the man on the way out, “I like the other one better.”

  He grabbed the phone the moment they were out the door.

  “Missing persons,” a female voice said on the other end.

  “This is Mason from homicide. I need to speak to a supervisor right away.” The only Mason, he thought.

  A gruff voice came on the phone. “Sergeant Burrows.”

  “Burrows. This is Mason in homicide. I need to check on a missing persons report from a year ago.”

  “Is it active?”

  “It appears to be,” David said and gave him the name.

  He drummed on his desk with his fingertips while he waited. Burrows came back on and told him they didn’t have a missing persons report, active or inactive on that name.

  “Do you have a Detective Mason working there?”

  “Are you a jerk? You should know where you work.”

  He winced when the phone slammed down in his ear. He sat, leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, wondering what was going on in this place. Straightening, he glanced at the missing persons report again, but put it down. With his elbows resting on his desk, he spotted the missing recruit’s name. He jerked up. What the heck?

  He grabbed Ronny’s crime scene report on his desk and flipped through the pages to where he needed to look. He found what had bothered him all this time. His hands shook and his pulse pounded in his temples. That sorry idiot shot me, and killed Ronny. Inspector Patterson may die. But what’s his real name? He banged his hand on his desk. He should have seen it.

  Henry wandered in a few minutes later. “I talked to Judge Sloan about an exhumation order.”

  David looked up with a questioning look on his face.

  “Judge told me to tell you to call him when you have a live suspect.”

  David lit another cigarette. If he was going to keep smoking, he needed to get an ashtray. Henry stood, deep lines creasing his forehead making a v-shape between his eyes, hands thrust deep in his pockets. He scrutinized David’s cluttered desk. Files lay open, loose papers hung out his top left drawer, and cigarette ashes lay on the corner. Henry shook his head.

  “Henry,” David took a deep breath. “I need you to find out what happened to Belford’s widow, and if he has any children, and where they’re at.”

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your office and desk is a mess. This isn’t like you.”

  David sucked on his cigarette and scratched his ear. He forgot sometimes how sharp Henry was, when he set his mind to it. David knew what was going on and who the killer was. If he was right, he needed to leave Henry out. It had too much possibility of blowing up in his face. If he told Henry, his partner would not stay out of it.

  Henry rubbed his hands together, looking at David for a long moment. “You have that look on your face.”

  “I’m taking a vacation when this is all over.”

  Henry nodded. “We all need one. I’ll get busy on Belford.”

  An idea occurred to David when Henry left. In his statement, Sgt. Parker had said something about recording the vehicle license plate numbers in the area where Ronny died. They should have done that at the restaurant when the sniper shot him. He jumped up. Should have done this before, but he’d chased cases and not a suspect.

  Striding to communications,
he had them pull the logs. They’d compiled a vehicle list in the area and beside each license number, and they listed the owner’s name and address. David’s index finger went down the list following his eyes. It stopped. There was his missing academy recruit’s name. He wasn’t missing anymore, but who was he?

  Chapter 33

  Utter shock registered on the parents’ faces, when later that evening David took a picture line-up for them to view. Six white police officers stared at them from their pictures, all young, short brown hair, and no distinguishing marks or features. Without hesitation, both pointed to the imposter who introduced himself as detective David Mason.

  With pursed lips, David stared at the picture the parents identified. Tightness seized his chest. Someone had both hands around his throat, choking him.

  Staring at him, both parents shrank away from his expression.

  ***

  David had a quiet meal with Beth at her apartment because media had set up shop at David’s. He wasn’t in the mood for them.

  They called out for Chinese, but David picked at his food. He had too much on his mind to think about eating. Beth understood and didn’t press him.

  When he left her apartment, he took Interstate 45 South to Galveston. He needed to get away by himself to think. Palm trees whipped by as he crossed the causeway into Galveston proper. His Fiat guided him down fabled Broadway Avenue.

  At nine-thirty he pulled up to a deserted beach. He figured the media wouldn’t find him there. He knew who the killer was, how he did it, when, where, and what he did. What he didn’t know was why. It had to be revenge. Nothing else made sense.

  With the door open, he sat in his car and took his shoes and socks off and ambled on the beach. Sand crunched and seeped between his toes, and dead fish odors swam around him.

  He could prove the suspect was an imposter cop, and put him at his and Ronny’s crime scene, but not Inspector Patterson’s. David couldn’t prove he fired any shots, or even owned a rifle, and didn’t know why he’d shoot them in the first place. What it boiled down to, he had enough information any junior defense attorney could get him off.

  His jaws tightened. This killer was not going to walk.

  David stopped and lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag. As he sat in the sand, the only noise was the lapping waves, relaxing his tired muscles and frazzled mind. With a cloudy moon casting a glow on the ocean, the whitecaps sparkled at their highest peak.

  At three-thirty, he knew what he needed, a confession, but how could he make a cop, even a fake one, confess?

  He had to play to the killer’s weakness—the shooter believed he was smarter than everyone, and he had to have a burning hatred. If he was going to get him, the hatred would do it.

  Thinking about the problem, David concluded the only way to convict the imposter at this point was to get him on tape.

  ***

  Henry, with his hands stuffed in his pockets, waited for David when he arrived at the office. “Where have you been? Chief’s calling all over looking for you,” Henry blurted out.

  David didn’t respond for a long moment. He knew what he had to do. He also had to protect Henry. With a wife and two kids, Henry would stay with David no matter what, but all of this could backfire. If Henry were involved, it could backfire on him too. David had to consider two pressing issues—the legal aspect and the other officers’ reactions. He had to keep Henry from both.

  David sat and took out a cigarette, tapping the butt on his Zippo for a minute before lighting it. “Henry, Belford’s widow lives over on Kings Row. I want you to take another detective and a patrol unit over there and arrest her butt.”

  Henry’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open. “David, she is seventy-two years old.”

  He shrugged. “She shouldn’t put up a fight, then.”

  “What’s the charge?”

  “Capital murder of a police officer, and two counts of attempted capital murder.” David stood and trudged around the room, taking a long drag. “I want her booked and photographed, and put in a picture line up. Get that witness, Sporter, who overheard the conversation in the restaurant, in here. He said he could identify the woman. I bet he’ll pick her out.”

  “What are going to do?”

  “I’m going up to see the chief.”

  Perched on the desk corner when David left, Henry pulled at his nose with his thumb and index finger. David had that look on his face. He knows who the killer is. Why would he send him to do something any junior grade detective could do? He’s getting me out of the way to protect me. Whatever he’s getting ready to do, he thinks it might blow up, and he doesn’t want me in the line of fire. Henry straightened, rubbing his mouth.

  David was not only his partner, but his best friend.

  ***

  Chief Pores paced in his office when David plodded in. When David had first met him a few weeks ago, the chief appeared energetic and tough. He carried himself high with a veteran cop’s pride. These last few days had drained him.

  Pressure had engulfed David, but there must have been twice as much on the chief. This kind of stuffed rolled downhill, but a lot had not landed on David. Chief Pores kept it off him.

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Sir, I was running down a hunch.”

  “Did you come up with something?”

  David sat on the edge of the seat, his hands clasped together, not looking at Pores. He took a deep breath. “Sir, I need something and you’ll have to approve it.”

  Pores sat in his seat, leaning forward and peering at David. “What’s that?”

  David rubbed his face. He didn’t know Chief Pores well, and didn’t know how much rope he would give him. He didn’t want to confide in the chief at this moment. When this was all over, he’d need to. He looked up. “I need a wire.”

  “A wire? What for?”

  “Sir, I need to record a conversation. I hope you’ll trust me and not make me go into details.”

  Pores didn’t say anything for several long minutes, watching intently. Rain plinked on the panes in his office.

  At last, he took a deep breath and stood. “William Patterson has great faith in you. He trusts you. I’m going to do the same. Go to Internal Affairs and I’ll call.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Before David opened the door, Pores stopped him. “David, Inspector Patterson’s going to make it. I was on the phone with the doctors this morning. That’s why I was looking for you.”

  Tears of relief welled in David’s eyes. He dropped his head to cover his emotions. “Thank you for telling me. He means a lot to me.”

  “Son, I know he does. You mean a lot to him, too. He has tremendous respect for you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “One thing, David. You need to make it, too. Don’t do anything that would jeopardize your safety. This department needs you.”

  Standing outside the door, David leaned his head against the wall, his eyes closed tight. Five people in this world looked at him and saw his inner size, not his physical height—Terry, Henry, Ronny, Inspector Patterson, and Beth.

  One was dead, one almost died, Terry was in California, and Henry was out of the way. David owed what he was about to do to Ronny and the inspector, no matter what the risks. They would do the same for him.

  With search warrant in hand, David drove to South Houston. He thought about the coincidence that Ronny’s killer lived less than a mile from his own apartment.

  Intent on what he was about to do, David forgot to check to see if anyone followed him. If he had, he’d have seen the car dodging in and out of traffic behind him.

  He sat in the vehicle for several long minutes thinking. With little evidence on the suspect, he might walk, and he would continue until he completed the job. The shooter had too much hatred inside to let David and Inspector Patterson live.

  Now, David had to consider whether he would let this continue. Could he do something against every principle he’d lived and preached? H
is hands trembled, gripping the wheel. He didn’t know.

  An older, slat-thin man greeted David when he strode into the apartment’s office.

  David flashed his badge. “Have you seen the man living in apartment 78 this morning?”

  “Sure did. Talked to him a few minutes ago. He came in, changed from his work clothes, and went to breakfast.”

  “Is this a normal routine?”

  “Yeah, he does this almost every morning when he works night shift. What’s this about?”

  “Do you have a spare key to his apartment?”

  “Yeah, but you’d have to have a warrant.”

  David slapped the warrant on the counter. “You are not to say nothing if he comes back. Is that understood?”

  His eyes bugged and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yes, sir.”

  David edged down the sidewalk, put the key in without knocking, and entered the small apartment. He thought for a moment and locked the door. As he glanced around, a shudder sped through him. A scoped Winchester .270 leaned again the wall in the corner. Like a zombie, David eased into the bedroom and started searching. In the nightstand beside the bed, he found Ronny’s spiral notebook and pen.

  His heart thundered. Emotions surged through him like an electrical bolt. Tears boiled to the surface when he opened the spiral notebook and read the words, “You’re dead.”

  David knew the answer to the question he’d asked himself before coming inside.

  Chills shot up his spine as a key rattled in the front door. He turned the tape on, drew his gun, and held it against his leg to control his trembling hand.

  When the killer entered, he left the door open and put his keys down. His back to David, he turned. Surprise burst into his eyes, followed by hatred. “What are you doing in my apartment, Mason?”

  David’s stomached heaved and his throat constricted. He tapped his pocket. “Search warrant.”

  “You figured it out. I didn’t think you were smart enough.”

  “Smart enough,” David managed to say.

  Still trembling, David gasped for air. Breathing through his nose, he tried to control his rage. When he had left Viet Nam, he’d never thought he’d ever feel hatred and the thirst for revenge this strong.